


The Reds & Blacks

by summerhall



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:24:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 9,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerhall/pseuds/summerhall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles focusing on notable members of Houses Targaryen and Blackfyre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the great bastard // shiera seastar

**Author's Note:**

> _Chapters 1-32 were written before 'The Rogue Prince', 'The Princess and The Queen', and 'The World of Ice and Fire' were released and may be based on now-inaccurate information._

Shiera sits with him under the weirwoods, under the cover of his old gods. He fletches arrows while she works on her spells. It’s her own special kind of blasphemy, being the witch in the godswood. She takes pride in it, as she does in all her acts of defiance. She enjoys seeing the sneers and expressions of shock and horror on the faces of the few tree-worshipers of the court.

She never upsets Brynden, though. Not here, at least. He’s never upset here.

Not even when he breaks their silence to propse marriage, yet again, and she turns him down, yet again.

“Damn stubborn woman.” He mutters, turning back to his arrows. She smiles in return.

Later that day she surprises him in his chambers and fucks him on his table, knocking over parchments and candles and spilling ink on the floor and on themselves. After, when she’s laughing at her black handprint on his ass, she thinks maybe, just maybe, the next time he asks, she’ll say yes.

She never does.


	2. the dragonknight // aemon

He waits to visit her. He waits until after all the councilmembers, and ladies, and maids, and the king have all gone away, gone to celebrate, before going to her. He waits until it can be just the three of them. 

“Aegon thinks he’s his.” Naerys says quietly, long after he’d entered her chambers. After he’d had a chance to hold his child, to stare at him and marvel, to laugh and weep and swear that he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Aemon sighs, but his smile remains, albeit more bitter. “I know. And he’ll continue to think that.”

The queen reaches over and presses her palm against her brother’s cheek. “He’ll have you killed if he finds out the truth. You, then me. And Daeron…”

“He can’t touch us.” The Dragonknight threads his fingers through her’s and brings their hands to his heart, his other arm cradling their son close. “In this moment, he can’t touch us. No one can.”


	3. the good queen // alysanne

Her words are met with silence and gaping stares, the men’s eyes wider than smallfolk children who glimpse the dragons for the first time. She looks around at each of the surly, weathered men dressed in blacks; one towards the back of their company is trying not to laugh, another rolls his eyes, and the rest just stand there, floundering for words.

Finally, the Lord Commander finds himself. “Pardon, Your Grace?”

“I said, why don’t you build a new castle? If the structure of the Nightfort is in such a state that it can’t currently handle the demands being placed on it, why not build another castle? Surely, the Watch is not averse to more garrisons along the Wall?”

“Of course not, Your Grace!” The Lord Commander says quickly. “It’s only that, well, the  _expense_ …it would be-“

“Paid for by me.” Alysanne pulls her furs closer and looks up at the Wall weeping in the sunlight. Silverwing weaves through the clouds high overhead, her shadow no more than a speck upon the ice. “The men of the Night’s Watch do a great service to this kingdom. It’s time the kingdom does something for the Watch in return.”


	4. a thousand eyes and one // lord bloodraven

He’s old and strong, tall and majestic. He sees all, hears all. Time and memories fade, and yet he remains. He’s in the godswood. He  _is_  the godswood.

He sees his mother, though barely, praying to his dead, bare limbs. He sees the snows falling in the North. He sees ancient things stirring from their slumber in the ice. He sees himself, his body, kneeling among the red leaves. He sees-

A light flashes. Brynden opens his eyes.

His gaoler is there, holding a lantern up. The light burns his eyes, and Brynden shrinks into himself, turning away, back into the darkness. “What…do you want?” He croaks, his voice hoarse from unuse.  _Has my time to die come already_?

“The king has summoned you.” The gaoler jerks his arm, pulling him up on his shakey knees. He’s closer to the light than before, so he covers his face with his arms, trying to block it out.  _The light, I’ve never liked the light, even as a child_. Was he once a child? He must have been, he’s seen himself through the trees. He feels too old to have ever been young once.

“The king? Maekar…”

The gaoler laughs, all but dragging him out of his cell. “Lord Bloodraven with his thousand eyes and one doesn’t know who the king is?  _Har_!” He’s pushed into a wall, his head knocking against the stone. He crumples to the ground only to be pulled up again. “It’s King Aegon that wants you, you dirty kinslayer.”

 _Aegon_. Egg, they’d called him as a child. He was a good boy- talkative and mischeiveous- but compaired to the others… his brothers,  _his father_.

Something stirs inside Brynden, the tiniest flicker of an almost forgotten emotion. Hope.  _Maekar put me in this cell, perhaps Aegon will take me out._


	5. the young prince // valarr

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was meant for better than this- better than lying in a bed with sweat-soaked sheets being tended to by exhausted maesters. He was meant to be king, meant to be Valarr, the first of his name, King of the Seven Kingdoms. King of Everything.

Instead he’s going to die in his bed from a plague, like the smallfolk in the streets. His body will be burned by wildfire, maybe by itself, maybe in a heap like all the others. And then time will pass, kings will rise and fall, and he’ll be forgotten. The dead son of a dead prince. 

Undistinguished. Unimportant.

The maesters give him milk of the poppy to dull the constant ache he feels in his body. He closes his eyes, waiting for the restless sleep he knows is coming, when he hears them whispering to themselves. Matarys is dead, they say, and the king will be soon. This one’s not far off either. Who is to be the king now? Who will sit the Iron Throne now?

As the world around him fades into a haze, Valarr feels a tear run down the side of his face into his hair.  _It should have been me. It was all meant for **me** … _


	6. the would-be queen // rhaenyra

They parade her through the throne room in chains. She keeps her head high, her eyes focused forward, to the Iron Throne. To her brother. She hears the murmurs from the lords and ladies that pack the hall, most of them her brother’s supporters, with a few of her own allies-turned-traitors in attendance as well.

She sees her son’s face out of the corner of her eye. She will be strong for him. She will die with dignity for him.

The Kingsguard stop her at the foot of the throne, in front of Criston Cole. She spits in his face.  _My dignity will allow me that._

King Aegon II sits on high, a triumphant smirk twisted upon his mouth. “Will you not bow to your king, dear sister?”

“I do not bow to false kings,  _dear_  brother.”

The smirk slides from his oily face. “A traitor to the very end. So be it.” He waves his hand and the doors behind them open. The nobility gasp and scream with terror as Aegon’s dragon is led in, heavy chains around his body and mouth. His wings beat uselessly against his binds, and she can see the steam rising from his jaws. 

 _He’s angry._ She thinks.  _And hungry._ What’s left of the crowd is pushed back, leaving her and the dragon alone in the center of the room. A woman screams, and she can see her Aegon, her son, fighting against the lords that are holding him back. She sees him screaming, sees the terror in his eyes, and only then does she realize.  _Seven save me. **This**  is to be my fate?_

The king nods his head, and the chains are removed. The dragon lets out a scream, spreads his wings, and Rhaenyra can see nothing but fire.


	7. the mad king // aerys II

_I am the dragon. No one can defeat a dragon_. It becomes his mantra, his prayer. Even when he burns the Starks and ignites a war, when battles are lost and Hands are banished, when his son dies and the hope of victory dies with him, he repeats it, becaus he knows it to be true. It  _must_  be true.

 _I am the dragon. No one can defeat a dragon._  Dragons are conquerors, they are killers. They are fire, and rage, and strength. They are victorious.  _He_  will be victorious.

“ _I am the dragon_.” He says to himself and the Lannister boy at his back. “And I will  _burn them all_.”


	8. the last queen // rhaella

She walks down the corridors with her head held high, the raven’s message clutched inside her shaking hands.  _I am still queen, and I still have my pride._  She won’t let them see her cry.

She saves that for when she reaches her chambers. Rhaella sobs and screams, rips the curtains from the windows and the feathers from the pillows, throws the flower vases and the wine goblets into walls. She breaks and burns anything she can get her hands on, anything that gets in her way.  _It all means nothing. Everything means nothing. My son-_

She hates them all- the Starks, the Baratheons, her husband.  _My son is dead because of them. Because of all of them_. She smashes a chair against the fireplace, then another, and another. Then the tables, and the bed, and everything in sight until nothing is left but pieces scattered on the floor and splinters in her hands.  

Elia finds her in the morning, sitting silently among the ruins of her room. The princess says nothing, merely steps around the debris, and slides down the wall next to her. She waits a moment before picking up the queen’s hands and gently begins removing the shards of wood and glass. “We will survive this, my queen. We must.”

Rhaella doesn’t contradict her. She doesn’t have the heart to.  _My sweet, good daughter. None of us will survive this._


	9. the black brother // maester aemon

He wonders sometimes what it would have been like. When the winter is hard and long, and his blood seems to freeze inside his veins, when the winds blow out his fire in the night and his still-young bones creak as he walks through the ice tunnels, he wonders what it would have been like to be king. 

He knows it is better the way it is. Egg-  _Aegon_  has made a good king, a king to be proud of and thankful for. Aemon knows nothing of being king. He knows books and history and healing. He never learned how to rule because he never thought he’d need to.

It is better this way. He has his place on the Wall and his brother has his on the Iron Throne. Maester Aemon and King Aegon. That is what’s right. He knows it down to his ice-chilled soul.

But it isn’t enough to keep him from asking his new Lord Commander what it was like. What it felt like sitting the massive monstrosity of a throne and knowing that you had power over  _everyone_.

Bloodraven stares at him from under his hair for a long while. “It feels like there’s an entire kingdom weighing your shoulders down, pressing you into the ground until you suffocate. Because there is.”

Later that night, Aemon steps out of his chambers and takes a deep breath of air, savoring the feeling as it freezes it’s way down to his lungs.  _It is better this way._


	10. the last dragon // rhaegar

She visits him in the dark of night, well after all the respectable ladies and lords have left the feast to the drunks and singers. He’s almost surprised when he finds her on the other side of his door, the crown of flowers in her hands, and a petulant look on her face. He’d expected her brothers to have hidden her deep inside the Stark camps, out of gossip’s sight and far away from him.

“My queen.” He bends forward in an only slightly mocking half-bow.

Lyanna opens her mouth, but, hearing a servant shuffling down the corridor, hurries inside and quickly shuts the door. Only once she’s sure they’re alone does she speak. “Are you  _mad_ or do you just wish to die? Because I can’t think of any other reason for what you did today.  _Your Grace_.”

Rhaegar fights back a smile. He’s sure if he smiled or laughed at her now, she’d slap him, crown prince or no. “I’m not sure what you mean, my lady. I awarded the title of Queen of Love and Beauty to the one I found most deserving of it.”

Lyanna Stark considers him for a long moment, then laughs. “You  _are_  bold, I’ll give you that.” Her gray eyes roam over him once more. “And you’re not half bad with a harp either. Or a lance.”

This time Rhaegar does smile. “I’m told I have many commendable qualities.”

She laughs again, a full, genuine sound. Nothing like the suppressed giggles of the court ladies. “I suggest you keep your ‘commendable qualities’ to yourself before you get us both in trouble. Again.” With a defeated sigh and a roll of her eyes, she places the crown of winter roses back on her head, and sees herself out.

Rhaegar stares at the door long after she’d shut it behind her, a rising sense of intrigue and amusement filling him. Lyanna Stark is different from any other woman he’s ever met. Young, but mature and sure of who she is- and of who she isn’t. She absolutely  _fascinated_  him.

He’d been told by everyone from his wife to his friends to his guards to leave her alone, to put as much distance between them as he could and wait for the scandal to subside. 

Just this once, Rhaegar doesn’t think he’ll do as he’s told.


	11. the made king // aegon II

He stays in the throne room after it’s all over, after the servants have cleaned up the blood and vomit and done what they could with the scorch marks. Most of the floor and walls are black, and there’s a lingering scent of cooked meat hanging in the air, but he doesn’t care. It’s all worth it.

He runs his hand over the bladed arms of the throne, and watches as the blood wells up in his palm. How many kings have cut themselves on this very throne? How much dragon’s blood has been shed over these old, contorted swords? Aegon presses his palm against the arm, letting his blood mix with the blood of his predecessors.  _It’s all mine now._

His father had tried to keep it from him, even after his death his father had rejected him. And his sister. Rhaenyra had tried to take what was rightfully his. She’d paid the price of her treason with her life.  _But I was merciful. I gave her a fitting death. A death to be celebrated and remembered._

Aegon stares through the black darkness to the black floors, remembering the charred body of his sister being bitten off in smoking chunks and consumed by his dragon.  _She will be an example to others_. He thinks, leaning backwards until his crown  _clinks_  in contact with the throne. He stays there, alone in the darkened throne room, for hours more, savoring the feeling of having everything for the first time in his life.

 _It’s all mine now._


	12. the drunken dreamer // daeron

His hands shake as he lifts the too-full glass of wine to his lips, the motion spilling red liquid onto his hands. It’s early in the morning-  _too early for drink_ , Aemon would say- but he passed caring years ago.

 _Fire, nothing but fire, burning- burning everything- but not her. Not this woman. And the eggs- the eggs are opening, they’re hatching! And the sounds! The sounds of the dragons!_

He shakes his head, trying to shake off the night’s dreams. He’s had that one before, many times. The music of the dragons would sing him to sleep as a child, when the visions of fire and blood would keep him awake in the night. He’s seen it so many times, but never like this. This time it changed, the visions of fire morphing into ice then back again nearly seamlessly.

 _It’s cold, it’s so cold. There’s nothing but ice and snow and things moving in the darkness. And a dragon. A dragon lost in the snow, burning brightly against the darkness._

He doesn’t understand it, but he never really has. He sees the future more than he sees the present, but it seldom ever makes sense.  _It’s a mad world we’re going to live in. A mad world filled with blood, and ice and fire._

Daeron pours another drink.


	13. the unlikely // aegon V

He imagines it would be green. It’d have to be green. With white wings, or a white belly, or white eyes. Strong too, and large. Large enough to ride down to Summerhall in a matter of hours, or north to the Wall, to visit his brother, in days instead of months.

“Staring at it won’t make it hatch.”

Aegon looks up and smiles as Ser Dunk enters his chambers, still somewhat awkward in his white armor and heavy cloak. “Do you ever think it  _will_ hatch?” He asks, only half serious, once Duncan’s sat down.

Dunk shrugs, helping himself to the wine. “Maybe. Maybe not. Could be one day you wake up to egg shells and a little green dragon crawling around on the floor.”

The king smiles down at the egg, his eyes tracing over the pattern of white swirls against the green. A dragon,  _his_  dragon. The first in years. “That would be  _splendid_.” 


	14. the dragon in the sands // daenerys martell

She spends her first month in Dorne crying. Her new husband says nothing, though she knows he can hear her silent sobs in the night.

Everything is so different. The people, the climate, the food, the culture. Nothing is familiar. None of it is what she wanted. Especially her husband.

She wanted Daemon, with his Valyrian hair and violet eyes, his smirk and his charisma, his strong shoulders and slim hips, his intelligence and ambition. She wanted to be his queen, to sit beside him when he took the Iron Throne, like Father had wanted. She wanted to wake up beside him every morning, and lie with him each night. She wanetd to sit next to him and watch him clean the blood of his enemies from Blackfyre. She wanted to call him  _husband_  with a smile on her face.

Instead, she sits across from Prince Maron Martell and calls him  _husband_  with no emotion at all. It takes time, but when she realizes that Daemon isn’t going to burst into the halls of Sunspear and demand that his love be returned to him, like a hero from a song, she begins looking for traces of him in Maron. A witty remark, a mischevous glint in his eyes, a righteous fury against those that wrong him, something, anything. But she finds nothing.

Decades later, as she sits beside her husband and watches their grandchildren play in the pools with the orphans, she finds herself struggling to remember Daemon Blackfyre at all.


	15. the good // daeron II

Daemon’s quiet when he enters the throne room, the soft sounds of his boots falling against the tiles and the mourning bells outside combining to a strange, haunting rhythm. It sends a chill up Daeron’s spine.

His bastard brother stops beside him, his eyes trained forward, to the Iron Throne. “I get the sword, you get the throne. Is that how this works?”

The new king cuts his eyes downward, to where Blackfyre sits at Daemon’s hip, looking as if it belonged no where else but there. (Years later, when the kingdom is ripped apart between the two of them, he’ll wonder again if it, and everything else, really  _did_  belong with him.) “I didn’t know you’d even get that.”

Daemon has grace enough to laugh. “Neither did I. Blackfyre  _and_  legitimization.” There’s a wicked stirring in his eyes when he turns back to stare at the throne. “It makes you wonder.”

Daeron’s imagination doesn’t have to wander far. Some of the lords have already been quietly questioning  _which_  son Aegon had truly wanted on the throne. He doesn’t comment either way. Partly because acknowledging such talk would only fan the flames of the simmering treason even more, but mostly because Daeron doesn’t know the answer to that either.

He looks again to the sword of his ancestors, now in possession of someone other than the king for the first time in it’s history. “It does make you wonder, brother. It does indeed.”


	16. the defiant // daena

She waits for him every night, naked in the bed with the sheets turned down. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, locked away in a tower, waiting for her husband to come fuck her.

He doesn’t, though he eventually does let her out. Her black dresses turn to white then, just to annoy and embarrass him, because he annoys and embarrasses her. The courts and kingdoms whisper- Daena the Defiant, they call her. Baelor calls her nothing, not sister, certainly not wife. He’s too busy calling on the Seven to suppress his manly urges than to actually be a man.

Their cousin Aegon embraces his manly urges. He likes the white silks on her skin and the confident upturn of her head when she walks into a room knowing that every eye is on her. He was even handsome, some years back. Now his waist has grown a little rounder, his face a little fuller, and his appetite for pleasures beyond food and drink have doubled abhorrently.

But he looks at her as if she’s the most desirable woman in the land, as if she actually  _matters_. And, after years of indifference from the man who vowed to love her, Daena’s defiance has become all but desperation.


	17. the stag's wife // rhaelle baratheon

Duncan doesn’t come to her wedding. Though the sept is crowded with people standing shoulder-to-shoulder, to Rhaelle, there is a gaping hole among the crowd where her brother should be.

 _He should be standing beside me._ She thinks, glancing at her husband-to-be. He’s strong and large and handsome, all black hair and blue eyes, a true Baratheon. He’d be a good husband, or so her father said, and she’d be a good lady wife.

A _lady_ wife. Not a queen. Not Duncan’s queen. Her whole life, everyone told her that she was meant for _Duncan_ \- meant to marry him, meant to rule with him, meant to love him.

No one ever told her what she was meant to do if Duncan loved someone else.

The heavy red and black cloak around her shoulders falls to the ground, replaced by an even heavier yellow one. Her father kisses her cheek as she passes by him on the way out of the sept, as do her two brothers.

Her third brother is outside with the smallfolk, standing under the statue of King Baelor with the woman he loved more than a crown. She sees him as soon as she steps outside the sept, her eyes drawn to him, just as they always have been. He smiles at her and blows her a kiss, and she cries all the way back to the Red Keep.


	18. the cruel // maegor

The crash of thunder echoes across the keep. Lightning strikes somewhere in the Kingswood. Maegor startles awake. His hand catches a blade and slices open, blood spilling onto his sleeve and the Iron Throne.

“Are you alright, my king?”

Maegor looks up. Lightning illuminates the throne room, and, for a brief moment, he can see his queen walking towards him, before the darkness returns. “It’s this damn chair.” He says, clutching his wound closed.

“Let me.” He hears a rip of clothing, and suddenly Jeyne is there, wrapping his hand with tender efficiency. He tries to look up at her, but can see nothing but black. He can imagine her face though: her brow furrowed in worry and thought, her brown eyes darkened by the lack of light, her lips pursed and focused. She’s always been his favorite wife, the one he takes to bed the most, the one who disappoints him the most when, month after month, her womb refuses to bear him a son. Still, he cannot make himself kill her. He kills all the other ones, the ones who are of no use to him, the ones who disappoint him, or refuse him, or simply annoy him. But not Jeyne Westerling. He cannot make himself kill his queen.

“Come here,” he says, dragging her down onto his lap. She laughs and lifts up her skirts, twisting around so that she straddles him. “Shall we make a king upon a king’s throne?”

He can feel her smile against his lips as she pushes his coat back and rips his shirt down the middle, her hands roving over his bare chest until they come to rest over his heart.

In the pitch black, Maegor doesn’t see her blade until it’s already in his chest.

Her mouth is still pressed against his when she pulls the dagger out and stabs him once more. “You will never kill another woman again.” His queen whispers against his lips, her hand twisting the blade. “Your reign is done.”

Lightning strikes, and when she pulls back, he can see his blood on Jeyne’s lips, before everything turns dark.


	19. the devout queen // naerys

She hears her before she sees her. The rhythmic _tap-taping_ of heeled shoes against marbeled floors echoes throughout the sept, empty save for two. The woman stops beside her, her skirts shifting with the end of motion, and sending a wave of sweet Lyseni perfume through the air. On her knees, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms wrinkles her nose. _I would command her to kneel before the Mother, were she not heavy with child_ , she thinks as she rises to her feet. As much as she wished it different, Naerys was still queen, and she would not be towered over by the king's mistress.

Serenei of Lys stands tall beside her, affrontingly beautiful in the candlelight of the sept. Her arms rest over her stomach, and her eyes stare up at the Mother with something like reverance. "Who do you pray for, Your Grace?"

 _Everyone. Myself._ Instead, she answers truthfully. "You. Your child."

There is a moment, a fleeting, quickly ended moment, when the awe Serenei holds in her eyes for the Mother focuses on her. " _Why?_ "

 _Because you live. Because you are a woman. Because you could be my way out._ "It is my brother's child you carry."

She twists her lips into a half smile. "It is your _husband's_ child I carry."

Naerys finds herself wearing a matching smile. "That too." She has no reason to like the latest of her husband's conquests; on the contrary, she is expected to hate her with a passion, to shame and scorn her at every turn, for the simple crime of usurping her rightful place in her husband's bed. But Naerys wanted no place in her husband's bed, she never had, nor had she ever begrudged the misguided women that did. _My place is here, in the home of the gods, serving them._ She had never given up hope that Aegon would release her from her marriage vows, that he would find a better queen to replace her. She hopes that he has found one in Serenei of Lys. "Do you love my husband, Lady Serenei?"

To her surprise, the woman laughs. "No, Your Grace."

Naerys begins to smile. _Perhaps he has finally found my replacement after all._ "Neither do I."


	20. the lost prince // aegon vi

Aegon Targaryen rides north from Storm’s End with a Martell to his left and a Dayne to his right, banners of griffins, suns-and-spears, and dragons at his back. He reaches the Vale of Arryn to find no Arryns, but a wife of a Lannister, widow of a Hardyng, with the look of a Tully, but no doubt a Stark.

There is snow in her hair and ice in her eyes when she greets him, clearly lady over all in a house and land so far away from her own. “And what proof do you have that you are who you say you are?” She asks, after he had proclaimed himself and his intent, and endured the derisive snorts and disbelieving laughter of her lords and ladies.

He nods to one of the women behind him. The dyes are washed from her hair, the white septa’s robes traded for skirts in the lavender of her house; Ashara Dayne is Lemore no longer. “The word of my foster parents. The Lady Ashara Dayne of Starfall and former- Hand of the King Jon Connington.”

Sansa Stark is unimpressed, though her eyes drift to Lady Dayne with curiousity. “Words are wind. You would have the knights of the Vale go to war for you, have them fight and die to seat you on a throne to rule over them on this? The promise of a woman long thought dead and an exile?”

Aegon smiles. “Ah, but you see, my lady, I do not mean to fight for the Iron Throne. Not yet. There is another war we must see to first.”

The lords around her begin to grumble, some even begin shouting, but Lady Stark holds up one delicate hand and they bow to her will, silent but sullen. “ _Another_ war? And who exactly would we be fighting against in _this_ war?”

“The Long Night.” The lords break out in laughter, but Lady Stark silences them again. “I would have your armies march north with mine, to the Wall. The words of your house have told true, my lady, winter has come, and it crueler than anyone could have imagined. As we speak, my aunt, Daenerys Targaryen, her army, and her three dragons fight with what is left of Stannis Baratheon’s forces and the Night’s Watch against the Others. I mean to gather what true soldiers these kingdoms have left and meet her there. Her, and my brother.”

The men around her begin to mummer again, but she ignores them, her eyes still hard and impassive, but her knuckles clenched white against the arms of her chair. “Your brother? I was not aware Rhaegar Targaryen had two sons.”

To her clear surprise, he begins to laugh. “Neither was I until a few weeks ago. My father had a daughter and a son with Elia Martell. And then he had a son with Lyanna Stark. The boy was hidden away and kept safe from the Usurper, like I was. I’m sure you know him well, my lady. Your lord father hid him at Winterfell and raised him as his bastard son.”

The great hall of the Gates of the Moon is silent, motionless, every lord of the Vale watching their lady, waiting for her response. From the corner of his eye, he sees Duck tensing, and Ashara standing breathless. Finally, white-faced and trembling, Sansa Stark stands. “Your Grace. You have my attention now.”


	21. the prince of dragonflies // duncan the small

The crown was a gaudy thing, all black iron and sharp points, made to match the throne of it's wearer. _The throne of it's prisoner_. Duncan ran his thumb over the polished gold band, watching with mute satisfaction as the smear of fingerprints dulled it's shine.

"Saying goodbye?"

His brother stood wheezing behind him. The late autumn chill was already cutting him to the bone, and many a day sending him all but running out of council meetings, barely making it out the door before another attack hit him, his coughing echoing through the halls. _My dear brother_. Jaehaerys was the only one who understood, the only other one who saw this life of theirs for what it was. _But Jaehaerys does his duty_. Duncan wasn't that strong. Or that selfless.

He smiled as he extended the crown to his brother, as if he wasn't condeming him with the action. _Take it brother, release me from my shakles and bind them to your own ankles._ "It's always been too heavy for me."

Jaehaerys smiled knowingly as he accepted the crown, his hands looking even more weak and frail against the gold and hard iron. "It weighs heavily on all those worthy enough to wear it. Many in our family's history wore it too easily, more still died for only the chance of it resting on their head. Yet you refuse it." His brother's eyes were wide and cloudy when he looked up at him. "What is it about you that makes you so much better than the rest of us?"

There was no trace of disdain in his voice, and Duncan heard the question for what it was. _How can you be so brave as to say no?_

 _I am not brave_. He thought. _The brave thing would be to do my duty, to do what is expected of me, to think nothing of myself and all the while smile and be grateful for it._ The truth was, Duncan was too much a Targaryen for that. _Fire and blood. Only the fire in my blood burns for something other than power._

It burned for freedom.


	22. the young dragon // daeron I

“ _Scorpions?_ ”

Beside him, Daena has the gall to laugh. “I quite like these Dornish that you seem so transfixed by, brother. You don’t suppose you could marry me to one, do you?” Daeron doesn’t bother pointing out that she is already married, her husband sitting not a foot from her, his head bowed in silent prayer over his empty dinner plate for the late Lord of Highgarden.

Their uncle ignores her as well. “Lord Tyrell, however foolish he was, was all that was holding your rule in Dorne together. The other lords fight to contain it, but the Dornish are empowered again, wild as only rebellion and the end of winter can make a man. I fear it may be only days before the Martells have control of the kingdom again, if they don’t already.”

_Damn them all to seven hells. Them, and their bloody scorpions._  It had taken him years to finish what Aegon the Conqueror had started. Years of sand and sun and fire and blood and death. He would not have it all undone in a matter of days. “How long would it take to reform the armies?”

His uncle stares at him down his nose, the same condescending look in his eyes he would have when Daeron was a child. It only serves to anger him more. “Your Grace, Dorne is likely lost already-“

“ _I will **not**  lose Dorne!_” His voice echoes off the walls, and his family sits in silence, none of them daring to move or meet his eyes. “What are my titles?” His uncle looks up, confused. “Prince Viserys,  _what are my titles?_ ”

“The…First of Your Name. King of the Seven Kingdoms-“

“Seven Kingdoms, Uncle.  _Seven_. That title has been a lie, a courtesy taken by my fathers, all the way back to Aegon the Dragon, when he left his conquest incomplete. I mean to finish what he started. I mean to say that I am King of the Seven Kingdoms and have no man contest it. And I will not have everything that I have fought for ruined by a bit of trickery. So I ask you again,  _how long would it take to reform the armies?_ ”

This time, Viserys does not hesitate. “Months. Four, five, at best. The lords have not been long in releasing their soldiers; those men won’t be quick to return. Some not at all.”

Daeron crooks his finger. His wine steward shakes as he pours his cup too full. “See that they do, my lord Hand, and quickly. I intend to march for Dorne as soon as possible.” The wine is lukewarm in his mouth, but he barely tastes it; his mind is filled with the burn of the sun on his skin, the sight of the red dunes turned redder by bloodstains.  _I will see this done. I will see House Targaryen finish it’s work. Even if it kills me._


	23. the maidens in the tower // elaena and rhaena

_Tap-tap-tip-tap-tap_. Elaena’s nails tapped a rhythmless beat against the balcony railing, her chin in her hand, and her eyes fixed on the bay. Behind her, Rhaena heaved a sigh and closed _The Seven-Pointed Star_ gently, her thumb absently stroking the cover out of habit. “Just go.”

Her sister didn’t spare her a glance. “What’s the point? Our cousins are no fun- well, Naerys isn’t, Aegon’s likely drunk already, and Aemon will just bring me back here if I’m caught. And Alyn’s at Driftmark.”

 _And that’s it_. Rhaena stood and walked onto the balcony. The wind ruffled her skirts and blew a stray hair into her face. The breeze felt so nice against her skin she didn’t even bother pushing it back. “So do whatever it is that Daena does when she escapes.” 

“Daena fucks our cousin when she escapes.”

Rhaena’s mouth twisted into a smile. “So do you.”

Elaena startled, shocked silent by her usually demure sister’s brazenness. Slowly, a smile spread across her face, and together they laughed, loud and full, with the wind in their hair and the sunlight on their faces, and, for a moment, it was as if they were free.


	24. the blessed // baelor I

The gods were close. They were there with him, all around him, urging him, _come closer my son. Come close so that we may touch you, guide you, sustain you. Come closer to us, for we are all you need._

Baelor could hear the truth in their voices inside his head. He could hear the Father's voice, strong and deep, and the Mother's, smooth and loving, and the Maiden's, high and clear. The Crone spoke to him of the wisdom of his struggles. The Smith thanked him for building them such a grand home, for building a sept worthy of them. The Warrior lauded his peaceful ways, for true strength lies not with steel but with prayer. 

The Stranger stood behind him, silent and intimidating, but Baelor feared no part of the gods, so he turned, to look upon Death's face-

"Your Grace."

Death wavered, and disappeared. In it's place stood his uncle.

"Your grace, you need to eat." Concern sat deep within the lines of his face, that face so like his father's.

Or was it? Baelor did not know. He could not remember his father. He could not remember the last time he had seen his uncle, or closed his eyes to sleep, or tasted food on his tongue.

 _The gods test me. They take away memory and thought to see if I will relent, but I am not so weak._ "My faith sustains me, uncle. I need nothing else."

Beside him, inside of him, the gods smiled.


	25. the dark sister // visenya

Bodies laid in front of her, beside her, behind her, all around her. The air hung heavy, thick with the smell of death and smoke and burnt flesh. She could hear a man retching from it somewhere behind her. He wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last.

Visenya stopped amongst the carnage and took a deep breath. The smell was comforting to her. It smelled of home, and victory, and possibilities. It smelled of her dragon, as familiar and natural to her as her mother’s milk.

She walked on, stepping through the bodies and the blood and the burns, until she came to a man, sobbing and pleading for death. Kneeling, she took the man’s face in her hand; dirt and sweat and blood streaked together as she ran her finger over his cheek.

“What is your name?” She asked, soft as a child.

The man’s words came out in a gurgle of blood and spittle. She did not understand, but it did not matter. She unsheathed the dagger strapped to her thigh and slit his throat. The blood ran red and bright to the ground, singeing as it touched the blackened earth.

 _Red and black. Fire and blood._ Visenya smiled and walked to the next pleading man.


	26. the dragon's queen // rhaenys

Aegon begins calling them his queens long before he ever decides to sail west. Both she and her sister had always laughed it off, taking it for a compliment and an unnecessary, but appreciated, attempt at seduction. It isn’t until he commisions the table and turns away the Volantenes that she realizes his sweet words are meant seriously.

She never feels like a queen, not when she covers herself in silks and jewels and commands the awe of what troops her brother can gather. She doesn’t feel like a queen when she leaves Rhaenys behind and becomes ‘your grace’ and rarely anything else. She doesn’t feel like a queen when Aegon places a crown upon her head and carves out a place for her beside him, instead of behind him. She never feels like a queen because she has no idea what a queen should feel like.

She watches from the back of her dragon as the men of the Reach and the West die screaming, their sounds mingling with the roar of the flames and the cries of the dragons. There is blood under her nails, her own, from where she grips the reins too tight. Her silks and jewels and crowns are long gone. Her names and titles are left behind as well; here she is no one, only a dragon, beautiful and terrible at once. She makes a final pass over the field, relishing the feeling of heat between her legs as Meraxes ignites the horizon, and the screams grow louder. Her fists clench and her palms bleed, but she looks down upon the suffering, rides high over death, and smiles. 

_This is what it means to be queen._


	27. the dragon's heir // aenys

Aenys Targaryen is taught to rule a kingdom subdued by the Dragon, a people held in check by the Conqueror as a man is held against the earth by a boot pressing against his throat. Aenys Targaryen, the First of His Name, takes the throne to a land breathing the first sweet sigh of relief, and wanting more.

Rebellion spreads through the kingdoms like wildfire, faster and fiercer than anything he could have imagined, and led by the same faith his father had renounced the gods of his homeland for. _Mother used to tell me stories though, of Balerion the dark god of war, and Meraxes, the trickster goddess that could change her shape into anything she pleased. I could take them as the gods of the Iron Throne, and have done with the Seven._ The thought, the half-hearted threat, gives him comfort and a semblance of bravery when he closes his eyes at night to the sounds of the zealots screaming for his head.

The sounds grow louder and louder still, no matter how tightly he closes his eyes or how hard he presses his hands over his ears. The septons cry out for a dynasty to end before it begins. The smallfolk cry out against the enemies of their gods, blindly and unquestioningly following the words of the leaders of their faith. Maegor calls for war, his son calls for peace. _Peace is what I wish for as well, my smart son. For this to end. For it all to end, and be as it was before._ His father had ruled with such ease. He had made everything look so simple. _All I want is for this to be simple._

The world grows harder, the crys grow louder, and King Aenys covers his eyes and ears to it all. Behind him, unseen, his brother scowls.


	28. the mad prince // rhaegel

He screams. He stops. He screams again. It is shrill and loud and carries through the empty hallways. He decides to chase it.

His clothes burden him, so he takes them off, leaving a trail of once fine materials in his wake. He screams as he chases his scream, and laughs at the shadows.

His Uncle Brynden stands at the end of the hall, dark and pale and cold. He’s always liked Uncle Brynden- he smells of trees and strange things, and never laughs when he talks of darkness. Rhaegel runs up to him and screams in his face. He never blinks- he never does. “Nephew. What do the shadows do today?”

Rhaegel laughs and points at the walls where patches of darkness curl and twist. “They’ve come to dance, my lord!”

Brynden scowls, but Rhaegel leaves him, curling and twisting and dancing with the shadows. His scream is running down the stairwell, and needs catching.


	29. the conqueror // aegon I

The air was thick with desperation and ash. Blank faces, worshipful faces, what used to be faces, all stared at him as he passed. He began with the intent on looking at them all, making sure that he saw them and they saw him and they saw him see them, but there were too many. Half way through, the guilt that sat on his chest made him turn away. He started looking at the blood then, and the fire. _Those_ were familiar, those he could look at and feel like a conqueror.

 _This is all me_ , he thinks, _every bit of it_. He was the one who first thought the idea. He was the one who commissioned the table and studied it night after night. He was the one who turned down the chance to regain the empire of his people’s past. He was the one that chose west. _I am the one that has come to kill you and rule you. Bend the knee and rejoice in it._

His soul is covered in black dragon scales and barely healed wounds, and it looks out across the field where what were men lie dead and dying, and it screams victory. Aegon the man looks across the field of his doing, and can only feel the weight on his chest.


	30. the forgotten queen // aelinor

She is the one that pins the Hand’s badge on her Uncle Brynden. Aerys is in his chambers with his books, hiding away from the sickness and the world. But Aelinor is queen now, and has no time for such cowardice. There are kings and princes to bury, a coronation to plan, and plague. She has no time for anything.

The naming ceremony is no ceremony at all. It should have been done in the throne room, with the court (and king) in attendance, and a feast and tourney to follow. But the throne room floor is lined with noble bodies waiting to be burned, and half the court is dead, with the other half not far behind. So her two Kingsguard shadows and her Aunt Shiera are the only witnesses when, in a hallway, Brynden Rivers becomes Hand of the King in name as well as action. He bows formally, thanks her, and they walk together to the Alchemist’s Guild while discussing funeral plans.

That night, when green flames light the night sky and the now-familiar smell of burning death seeps into her skin, Aelinor takes a precious moment to herself and visits her husband. She chooses the largest book she can find, slaps it hard against his head, and leaves smiling.

 _The maesters can keep their herbs and ointments. That is all the cure I need._ She’s sure that she would sleep soundly, if only she had the time.


	31. the dreamer // daenys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This won't make much sense if you haven't read [this post](http://www.westeros.org/Citadel/SSM/Entry/6592/). So, you know, read it.

The vision burns her. It sears her skin and blackens her lungs from ash and air turned to flames. She wakes gasping. She wakes shaking, still feeling the earth collapse under her, around her. She wakes still deaf from the screams of dragons and burning children. She wakes terrified. But she wakes sure.

_There is nothing that can be done._ The certainty chills the burns and offers her the merciless comfort of absolute powerlessness.

She rises and dresses, walks the halls of her home with no destination. She walks with her hand trailing the walls, memorizing the feel of the columns, the smell of the heat in the air, the sight of the unending red glow of the Fourteen Fires lighting the night sky through the windows. She thinks of waking her father to warn him of her vision, as she had so many times before. 

She slips into bed with Gaemon instead. He stirs enough to reach for her and her heart aches, remembering the sight of him drowning in fire. Daenys holds her brother close and prays that she is wrong.

She sleeps wrapped around him and dreams of the west, and a chance for survival.


	32. the glorious // gaemon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the previous chapter, check out [this post](http://www.westeros.org/Citadel/SSM/Entry/6592/) to understand what's going on and who these characters are.

He hadn’t believed her. Gods help him, but he hadn’t believed her.

Not when she’d convinced their father to abandon Valyria. Not when they’d boarded the ships that would take them to Dragonstone, the mocking laughter of their friends and neighbors still ringing in their ears. Not when they had married and he had sworn his love for her before gods and men. Not even when she’d told him, just that morning, that the day had come at last and everything would change, had he believed.

The dragons cry out as if dying, the sky blackens like night to the east, and finally, _finally_ , Gaemon doubts no longer.

Balerion’s scream cuts through him like a sword and he can bear it all no longer. He pushes passed the crowd gathered to stare up at the sky in wonder and terror and makes for his chambers, running through the halls like a frightened boy. The wind against his face chills tears he hadn’t realized he’d cried.

Daenys lies still in the darkness on their bed, her body turned away from the closed windows. He wants to weep at the sight of her, to sob like babe from loss and pain and _guilt_. He wants to cry into her shoulder and have her say that everything will be alright because she _knows_ , as she always has, as he’s never truly believed. He wants to tell her he adores her and that he’ll never doubt her again, because he does and he won’t.

Instead he says: “Don’t you want to _see_?”

“I saw it all long ago.” Her voice is cold, but he goes to her anyway. He lies behind her and slowly wraps her in his arms, waiting for- expecting- her to push him away. When she grips his hand in her’s and pulls him closer, he doesn’t even bother choking back his sob.

 _I’m sorry_ is no where near enough, but he can’t think of anything that is- can’t think of anything that ever will be- so he says it again and again, his lips pressed against her back, her neck, her hair, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_ , and prays that one day he will be be worthy of forgiveness.


	33. the king in name // aerys I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this?? A new chapter?? To a fic that's been left for dead for FIVE YEARS??
> 
> YES. And more to come. (Thanks Season 7, for getting me back into the ASOIAF fandom. It's been too long.)

_"The properties of Valyrian steel are well-known, and are the result of both folding iron many times to balance and remove impurities-"_

"Your Grace."

_"-and the use of spells- or at least arts we do not know- to give unnatural strength to the resulting steel. Those arts are now lost, though the smiths of Qohor claim to still know-"_

"Your Grace."

Aerys tilts his chin towards his Uncle to indicate he is listening, his eyes still fixed on the book in his hand. _"-still know magics for reworking Valyrian steel without losing its strength or unsurpassed ability to hold an edge."_

"Your Grace, there are matters that need the King's attending."

He pauses, his eyes straying from the text in front of him for the first time in hours. They cloud and sting, and, as he attempts to rub the spots from his vision, he realizes suddenly that he is _exhausted_. The thought of leaving his chambers, of being paraded in front of the hoard of courtly lords and ladies to sit on that thrice-damned _chair_ \- it's too much. The thought of doing anything other than precisely what he is doing now- reading, learning, _hiding_ \- is too much.

Aerys, First of his Name, hunches his shoulders and turns away. "You can attend to them, my lord. After all, is that not what the King's Hand is for?"

Lord Bloodraven bows, and though Aerys' tired eyes cannot make out his Hand's expression from across the room, he thinks he can hear him sigh as he leaves. _Do not pretend that this is not what you want. That ruling is some great inconvenience, and not what you've always desired_.

His interruption having passed, Aerys turns back to the tome before him, his exhaustion and his duties slipping from his mind as he loses himself once again in it's ancient words. _"The Valyrian steel blades that remain in the world might number in the thousands..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The text that Aerys is reading comes from _The World of Ice and Fire_.


	34. the black bride // rhaena

She had waited until he'd come to her, already in his cups and raving against her brother. He had been too drunk to notice the cloudiness of the wine she'd offered. And even if he had, the milk of the poppy she'd placed in his glass took effect too quickly for it to have mattered. As she heaved the unconscious king onto the bed, Rhaena briefly considered simply slitting his throat and having done with it all.

_No. It'll do little more than brand me and Jaehaerys as kinslayers, and rally the lords against him._ Still, she thinks of Jeyne and Elinor. She thinks of her Aegon, and young Viserys, his body lying dead in the courtyard for days. _It would be so easy._ She runs her fingers over his neck, and imagines.

But she has no time for such thoughts, sweet though they may be. She'd only been able to steal a small amount of milk of the poppy from the maester, and it would not last long.

Rhaena dresses quickly, forgoing her traveling cloak so as to not alert the guards. In the back of her mind, she can feel Dreamfyre stirring, readying herself for their escape. _She yearns to be away from this monster as much as I do._

As she reaches for the door, her hand but a hair's breath from opening it, she pauses. Something gleams in the firelight, catching her eye. Blackfyre rests against the fireplace, the rubies in its sheath and hilt shining as if made from fire itself. Maegor had propped it there when he'd entered, but she'd been too consumed with her task to notice until now. Now, it seems to call to her.

Slowly, vengefully, Rhaena begins to smile.


	35. the princess across the sea // saera

She'd shed the white robes as soon as she entered the ship's cabin. Donning the thin silk dress so favored in the east had felt as freeing as her flight from the motherhouse. Saera gathers her thick, hated robes in her arms, marches out onto the deck, and tosses them overboard. _I'd rather go naked than spend another moment in them_ , she thinks. After hearing the calls and whistles of the crew and captain, she thinks she just might.

Behind her, King's Landing grows smaller and smaller in the distance. She watches it shrink until the Red Keep is nothing more than a speck upon the horizon. She thinks of her father, no doubt huddled around some grand table with his council, her mother by his side. They'll be hearing of her escape soon, if they haven't already.

She feels something akin to regret for the first time as she imagines her parents' worry. The feeling goes as soon as it comes, though. _You sent me to my prison, my King and Father. Gilded and holy it might have been, it was a prison nonetheless._

Having fled her cage and drowned her shackles, Saera turns towards the east, and breathes easily for what feels like the first time in years. The sea spray tastes like freedom, and the ship's captain looks like sin. _I have not had much of either in my life. Now I shall have it all._


End file.
